


ergonomics

by chidorinnn



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ableism, Canon Disabled Character, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Season/Series 01, the gang learns about ADA compliance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23865676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chidorinnn/pseuds/chidorinnn
Summary: Shiro was sick, once. For all intents and purposes, there's a high chance he might still be sick — but it'sdifferentnow in a way that he's sure his old prescription won't be able to touch.There's no telling how much of his old condition is still there, after everything that's happened to him — but it hasn't caused him any problems yet. That has to be something, right?
Relationships: Coran & Shiro (Voltron), Keith & Shiro (Voltron), Shiro & Voltron Paladins
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	ergonomics

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea that i haven't quite been able to get out of my head since that one interview where it was revealed that Shiro has been dealing with chronic illness and disability since well before the start of the series. It struck me as odd, and awkwardly tacked on when none of it actually showed in the earlier seasons or in the snippets of his backstory that we'd seen before that point. I realize that there's only so much you can squeeze into a handful of 20ish-minute episodes, but it doesn't work for me. Hence... this fic.
> 
> A disclaimer: I am not disabled myself, so please feel free to let me know if I've erred on anything in this fic. Accessibility is a special interest of mine, so most of my knowledge comes from work and academic research in that field and not from actual lived experience.
> 
> As for the tags regarding drug use, body modifications, and torture, there are some canon-level references in this fic (slightly altered with my own personal headcanon pertaining to how this would affect Shiro in the present day, and also to at least partially answer the question wither his past terminal illness is still _terminal_ because that, too, is another Word of God explanation that didn't quite work for me), but nothing is actually depicted in any great detail.
> 
> And with that, I hope you enjoy this!

To be perfectly honest, it’s a surprise that it took Keith this long.

The other shoe drops one day after training, when everyone else has filtered out. Keith’s still at the gladiator bot, driving the training sequence level up and up and up, while Shiro’s content to run through what stretches he remembers of the elaborate cool-down routine his physical therapist had concocted for him before Kerberos. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, if one of the others were to ask why his warm-ups and cool-downs are so elaborate and specific, but it’s still an awkward conversation that Shiro would much rather put off for a while longer.

Bless Keith for getting it, without him having to ask.

“Uh, so…” says Keith breathlessly, between parries. “How’s… everything?”

Shiro arches an eyebrow at him. “I figured you’d probably have a good idea of that as it is,” he says, deliberately bland. “It’s not like we haven’t been following the same schedule for the past month and a half, or anything.”

“That’s not what I meant,” huffs Keith, and Shiro resists the urge to sigh. Talking about these things has never been a strong suit for either of them; the question is how much Keith is willing to push, and how much Shiro is willing to _be_ pushed.

“It’s just…” says Keith. “I didn’t have your meds on me, when we left.”

Shiro laughs, and only feels slightly bad about it when Keith winces. “I haven’t had my meds on me in _months_ , Keith.”

Keith doesn’t laugh. “Well… that’s not good!”

“No,” Shiro concedes, “but it is what it is.”

“So are you… okay, then?” Keith asks, so painfully awkwardly that Shiro wants to melt into the floor. “I mean… you don’t have to answer if that’s too – wait, no, you _should_ answer because—” The sound that escapes him is halfway between a groan and a yell, as he tilts his head backward to shout at the ceiling, “End training sequence!” The gladiator bot stills, and Keith averts his eyes in an all too obvious attempt to avoid eye contact. “Sorry. I know you hate it when people fuss about this.”

“No, it’s fine,” Shiro replies, even though there’s no guarantee that it will _stay_ fine. “I… don’t think I need them anymore?” He phrases it like a question, as if it’s enough to articulate what it meant that a single bad day, a single flare-up, could undo the reputation he’d built for himself in that arena as something worth _preserving_. “I can’t even remember the last time I had a flare-up, to be perfectly honest.”

Keith frowns at him, but there’s no heat behind it. “That’s… good, I guess?”

Shiro smiles, and hates that it requires effort. “I appreciate you looking out for me,” he says, “but I’m okay. I promise.”

This wins him a small smile in return. “Good,” says Keith, and then leaves it at that – at least, for now.

* * *

There’s not a whole lot that Shiro remembers about the past year. Most of it comes back to him in inconvenient and poorly timed flashes of memory, appearing suddenly when before he had been expecting nothing, and then fizzling until it settles into a painful weight in his chest. There’s a lot that he hasn’t told Keith, and wouldn’t dream of telling anyone else – at least partially because he can barely stand to think about it himself.

He does, however, remember being forced to swallow things. Vile things, some of them burning his throat as they went down and others rejected altogether as he’d immediately cough it up along with everything he’d eaten within the past several hours. It’s that, he’s come to realize, that makes it hard to eat the food goo, sometimes – the texture is familiar, and it turns his stomach even when it tastes perfectly fine. There were needles, too – probably more than he’ll ever be able to remember, because it’s not like he had to be conscious to receive those.

It’s not an old curiosity, to wonder if one of those concoctions could be the reason he hasn’t had a flare-up since before Kerberos. If Lance’s near-mortal injuries could be healed within hours by an Altean pod, then it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility that one of those drugs had been enough to do away with what too many doctors to count have told Shiro is something that will kill him in a few years’ time.

The pain disappeared long ago, but there was never enough time to think too long and hard about it – not when there were fights to be won, experiments to be endured, and escapes to dream of. The fatigue and occasional bouts of weakness are still present, but _different_ in a way that he doesn’t entirely want to try putting into words – and, he’s reasonably sure, not in a way that his old prescription would be able to touch. It’s not something he can ignore, but it hasn’t caused him any problems yet. That has to be something, right? (And that’s not even getting into the clusterfuck that’s the prosthetic.)

—but there’s a voice that sounds suspiciously like Adam, calling him an idiot for putting it off. Somehow, it hasn’t occurred to anyone to conduct a medical exam on anyone in the castle that’s going to be fighting in the front lines, even though the others should have seen at least _something_ through a mind meld or two. He’s not so stupid to think that the Alteans of old didn’t have such trivialities as _chronic illness_ and _disability_ to worry about, even in their advanced medical knowledge – but there’s no telling how much of it even translates to human anatomy.

How much of his old condition is there, after everything? How much were those druids able to touch? How much were they able to _replace_? How permanent is this? Does his old expiration date, set by a specialist years before Kerberos, still stand after everything?

… it makes him nauseous just thinking about it – so he doesn’t, for just a little while longer.

* * *

He sees Keith with Pidge, Lance, Hunk, and Allura in the dining area the next day, both of them hovering over a complicated-looking map. “You know,” says Pidge as she circles in red ink three different things that Shiro can’t see from where he’s sitting, “you might be on to something here.”

“What have you guys got there?” Shiro asks.

Pidge’s glasses gleam almost ominously. “Schematics for the Green Lion’s cockpit,” she explains, shifting the map closer to him. “I was able to modify my Lion’s defense mechanisms, and it got me thinking – what _else_ can I modify? So, since we’ll be spending a lot of time _in_ the Lions… ergonomics! We’re talking adjustable seats, padding on the handles, levers and switches to pull things closer to the pilot’s seat, voiceover functionalities…”

As Pidge trails off into increasingly specific details, Keith very deliberately does not make eye contact – which is all the confirmation Shiro needs that this idea didn’t start with her. “Don’t you think we have more important things to be worrying about?” asks Shiro.

“Hey, speak for yourself,” says Hunk. “My ankles swell up like _crazy_ the longer I sit in there.”

“Ooh, a _standing_ option!” Pidge enthuses as she scribbles something in the map’s margins. “Is that doable, Allura?”

“It should be,” says the princess. “Just be sure that whatever modifications you make, you will still be able to pilot the Lions at full capacity.”

Pidge grins. “Sweet! What do you think, Shiro?”

This time, Keith _does_ make eye contact – as close to a direct challenge as he can get without causing a scene. “That sounds nice, Pidge,” says Shiro, placating, “but really, we should probably be focusing on more important things.”

“We’re going to be spending a lot of time in the Lions,” Keith interjects, a hard edge to his voice, “so don’t you think it’s in our best interest to make them as comfortable for the pilot as possible?”

—except for Shiro, just _comfort_ doesn’t even begin to cover it. _Comfort_ for others translates to _accommodations_ for people like him, and there’s a definitive line drawn between the two that damn near always results in Shiro apologizing for asking for too much, for daring to _need_ those things in such a way that it becomes an _inconvenience_.

It would be _amazing_ to have the adjustable seat, padding on the handles, levers and switches to pull things closer to him, all those things that Pidge spoke of – just because the old, pre-Kerberos pain hasn’t bothered him in a while doesn’t mean that it’ll never come _back_. There’s no telling when the prosthetic will crap out and render one arm completely unusable. There’s no telling when the fatigue and the brain fog will grow to be too much for him to even make it out of the cockpit – but Shiro’s never been able to just _ask_ for those things.

—again, there’s that voice at the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Adam: he’s an idiot for putting this off, but it’s not a conversation he knows how to start.

“Sure, go ahead,” he says, blandly. “Just so long as it doesn’t interfere with the mission.”

Keith gives him a long, hard look then. Shiro turns away, refusing to make eye contact.

* * *

It’s when Coran lingers after training and stays for the entirety of his cool-down routine that Shiro _really_ knows that he’s in trouble. Keith isn’t here – he’d taken a nasty blow from the gladiator bot earlier that necessitated a trip to the infirmary.

Coran gives him a long, appraising look, his eyes trailing up and down the prosthetic. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s looked at him like that, and it usually comes with words like _infirm_ and _unfit_. It’s not that Coran has ever given him a reason to believe that that will be the case here, but Shiro can never be too sure – and so he closes his eyes, and mentally rehearses what he’d tell any other doctor, or physical therapist, or exaggeratedly concerned Garrison official pontificating about why Shiro’s a terrible choice for the Kerberos mission: _I haven’t had a flare-up in more than a year. There’s little to no pain. I’ve been off my meds for months with no negative side effects. I can still fight. I can still be a Paladin._

(Don’t talk about the fatigue. Don’t talk about the drugs and the needles. Don’t talk about the routines he still can’t bring himself to shake, even though he might not even need them anymore.)

“Shiro,” Coran says, finally. “I was wondering, ah… please forgive the awkward question, but your arm…”

In an instant, something in him releases, and Shiro has to resist the urge to sigh in relief. Of course – the prosthetic is the only thing Coran can see. He has no reason to suspect that there might be something else. “It hasn’t been bothering me, Coran,” says Shiro. “You don’t have to worry.”

“Well, it’s not _worry_ , per se,” says Coran, “and I have every confidence that you’re managing it to the best of your abilities! It’s just that…”

Coran trails off, too awkwardly, and Shiro mentally counts to ten. “Look, Coran,” he says. “It’s really okay. I’ll come to you if there are any problems.”

“But that’s just the thing, my boy!” says Coran. “I’ve seen many a prosthetic in my time, and if there’s one thing I can say for sure, it’s that even the best of them can be rather _finicky_. The best course of action would be to nip this in the bud before it becomes a problem, you see?”

“And when it does?” The words are out before Shiro can think to stop them, and he regrets it immediately when Coran’s brow furrows. “What’s going to happen when it _does_ become a problem?”

Something in Coran’s gaze softens. “Then we deal with it, of course. We do what we must so that you become healthy again as soon as possible.”

 _And what if ‘healthy’ is impossible?_ Shiro almost asks, but manages to stop himself before the words escape him – because there’s no way to articulate that _normal_ for him has never been _good_ – that the _new_ normal might look worse than the _old_ normal on the surface, and yet is paradoxically better in all the ways that he hasn’t had to rely on all those structures that used to be necessary to hold himself together – but it’s _different_ , and therein lies the problem.

“You’re a Paladin, my boy,” says Coran, “and my job is to ensure that you’re able to continue serving as a Paladin as best as you can… provide whatever you may need to fulfill those duties. Now, what _you_ need won’t necessarily be the same as what the other Paladins may need, of course! Which is why it’s all the more important that we address this sooner, rather than later.”

Is it too much to hope, that Coran means that Shiro won’t lose his place over this? Is it too much to believe that this is something that can be worked _through_ , and not held up as a reason why he _can’t_ or _shouldn’t_?

“So is there anything I should know about?” asks Coran. “Any pain? Weakness? Tension?”

He thinks of Adam, calling him an idiot for putting off things like this until they become a problem. He thinks of Keith, so _careful_ around him, so aware of all that Shiro refuses to discuss. There’s still so much that neither of them could ever hope to know – so much that Shiro hasn’t told them, _can’t_ tell them.

Shiro swallows, and steels his resolve. Maybe Coran will be different. Maybe _Voltron_ will be different. “Actually,” he says slowly, evenly, “it hurts if I fight with it for too long. Sometimes, it hurts no matter _what_ I do with it. Not—not super often, or for very long… but it’s something you should probably be aware of.”

Coran smiles at him, gently, and it’s nothing like how it used to be with any of his old doctors, or anyone at the Garrison. “Well,” he says, “we’ll just have to work on that, won’t we?”

* * *

“Incoming!”

Shiro has all of two seconds to dodge before a floating, screeching metal contraption speeds past him and into the wall. Keith crashes to the floor with a pained groan, and rubs the back of his neck with a wince.

“What happened?” Shiro asks, rushing over to him and helping him to his feet. “Are you okay?” Then, he gets a good look at the metal contraption. “What _is_ that?”

Keith rolls his shoulders, and stretches his arms behind him. He doesn’t _look_ injured, but there will likely be bruises tomorrow, a favoring of one side during training. “A scooter,” he answers. “Maybe.”

Said maybe-scooter floats above the ground, with handlebars that glow blue and a long, wide platform that should make it possible for more than one person to ride it at a given time. The handlebars, Shiro notices, are conspicuously padded.

“What, a magical robot lion wasn’t enough?” asks Shiro, laughing.

Keith smiles, and something about it warms him. “Actually, I figured it would be a good idea to keep a few of these by the hangars. Because… you know, battles are a lot. Just in case we need a little extra help getting around after, or something.”

And at that, Shiro knows one thing to be true, about Keith: that Keith will use this maybe-scooter whether or not he actually needs it, if only so that it doesn’t look strange when _Shiro_ will eventually need it. Just like he shows up to training early and lingers well after it’s over, so that Shiro’s elaborate and prolonged warm-up and cool-down routines don’t look out of place. Just like he’d pushed for comfort for _all_ Paladins in the Lions’ cockpits, and not for accommodations for Shiro specifically.

“Where are you headed?” Keith asks as he mounts the scooter once more and braces himself against the handlebars. “I’ll give you a ride.”

“Uh, the infirmary, actually,” answers Shiro. “I’m doing okay,” Shiro assures him when Keith opens his mouth. “But I figured I was long overdue for a proper medical examination.”

And maybe, soon, he’ll be able to put to words just what the druids did to him, back when he was in that arena. Maybe he’ll be able to tell Keith, and not immediately panic that it will lead to _fussing_ , or distance born from it being _too much_. Maybe he’ll be able to sit _all_ the Paladins down and have this long-overdue conversation with them, and they won’t think any less of him for it.

“There’s a lot that happened, over the past year,” is what Shiro starts with. “I can’t really say what it all did to me when I don’t know what they _used_. But it definitely canceled something out. Not everything, but _something_.”

“Which probably comes with its own set of problems,” Keith muses.

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees. “Hence the medical exam.”

Keith shifts his weight, which makes the scooter weave from side to side. “Would it help if I was there?”

Shiro exhales, and something solid settles within him. “Yeah, if you’ve got the time. That would be great.”

Keith smiles, and jerks his head towards the scooter. “Get on.”

“Wait, on _that_?”

“Oh, come on. It’s just like riding a hoverbike.”

It’s not like a hoverbike at all. It’s awkward and unsteady, and clearly not built for more than one person even though there’s space for two – and Shiro holds on for deal life as Keith steers it, jerkily, down the castle walkways. “You know, this doesn’t work as a mobility aid,” says Shiro, slightly hysterically as they turn an overly sharp corner. “It’s unstable, and we’ve almost crashed _how_ many times now? That’s an unnecessary risk.”

“So what would be better?” asks Keith.

Shiro hums. “A seat, probably. Not for everyone, obviously, but sometimes walking _sucks_. An option for someone else to steer it, just in case the person sitting can’t, for whatever reason.”

“So… more like a wheelchair?” asks Keith. “That sounds pretty conspicuous. Are you going to be okay with that?”

Shiro did have a wheelchair, once – the last time he saw it, it had been sitting in Adam’s apartment. It wasn’t something he particularly liked using back then, because seeing him in it would invite all sorts of commentary he didn’t like handling even on the best of days – exclamations of concern at best, some of them genuine and some of them condescending, and a confusing number of them both simultaneously – and outright derision at worst.

("You're a Paladin," Coran had said. "And my job is to ensure that you're able to continue serving as a Paladin as best as you can.")

“I can do conspicuous,” he says. “I think. Maybe.”

Keith turns his head to grin at him. “Then let’s build a new one.”

Unbidden, Shiro finds himself grinning back. “Oh, we can definitely do more than that. I don’t know about you, but I think the idea behind this thing sounds pretty promising! For fun, if nothing else.”

They come to a screeching halt outside the infirmary, and nearly get thrown into the wall for their trouble. It’s quiet in this part of the castle – they’re the only ones here, besides Coran. “Ah, Number One!” Coran greets him, grinning and waving from inside. “Right on time! Will Number Four be joining us as well?”

Keith presses his hand into Shiro’s back. “You ready?”

Shiro takes a deep breath, and steps in.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! :)


End file.
